


Love Me, Love My Dog

by breathtaken



Series: Love Me, Love My Dog [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, Otherkin, Puppy Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:51:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3556715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I met someone. [...] Her name’s Constance. She’s gorgeous and clever and kind, even though she pretends not to be, and she likes me too… and she loves dogs.” </i>
</p><p>
  <i>“But you’re not sure if she wants one as a boyfriend, right?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Me, Love My Dog

**Author's Note:**

> I figured out while writing this one that d'Artagnan's probably [otherkin](http://justanotherkin.tumblr.com/post/58429596952/an-faq-on-otherkin-for-the-perplexed-observer).

Aramis lifts his arms up to the sky, stretching out his stiff muscles and squinting into the late morning sun. ****

It’s a surprisingly cool summer day and the four of them – even Athos – have commandeered a corner of Mairie d’Issy’s answer to a public park to toss a frisbee back and forth, though in practice Porthos is sending most of his throws far over d’Artagnan’s head and gleefully shouting “Fetch!” as he goes after it.

The third time, d’Artagnan gives him the finger before jogging over to where the frisbee has wedged itself into a bush; and Aramis turns to see Athos, taking advantage of the break in proceedings to wander over to him.

“Does he seem alright to you?”

“What, Puppy?”

Aramis isn’t sure for a moment what he’s more surprised by, the idea that there might be something wrong with d’Artagnan on this lovely summer’s day, or that Athos is asking for his opinion on the matter.

Though when he thinks back over the last week, their housemate slash occasional human dog has been rather more restless than usual, a little quicker to anger.

“He seems a little grumpy?” Aramis decides, looking over to where d’Artagnan has the frisbee in his hand and is walking back towards them, slowly enough to be deliberate. “I mean, he enjoyed himself a lot more last time we did this.”

Athos nods shortly, as if Aramis has confirmed what he was already thinking. “I’ll talk to him when we get back.”

“About his feelings?” Aramis grins, and presses the back of his hand to Athos’ forehead for a moment before Athos bats him away. “Are _you_ feeling alright?”

Athos rolls his eyes. “I’m perfectly capable of talking about feelings, thank you, I just choose not to do it with you.”

 _And that means I’ll probably never find out_ , Aramis decides, with a little disappointment; but as it turns out he gets his answer during lunch, when d’Artagnan looks up half way through his egg and chips and announces, “By the way, I’m going home next week. Wednesday to Sunday. It’s my mother’s birthday.”

“Awesome,” Porthos replies, jabbing Aramis repeatedly with his shoulder until he passes over the ketchup. “Looking forward to it?”

But d’Artagnan looks conflicted for about half a second before blurting out, “I know I _should_ , it’s my mother and my sisters and I miss them, but I can’t help thinking it’s going to be… different. Because of the _dog thing_.” He puts down his knife and fork, looking up despairingly for a moment – at Athos, Aramis notices. “Like I’ve got this secret. I don’t know.”

“Would you want them to know?” Aramis asks carefully – all too aware of the fact that while he’d never tell a family member about his own kinks, at least for him they’re very much limited to the bedroom. For d’Artagnan – as far as Aramis knows, anyway – they’re not about the bedroom at all, and he can see how that must be considerably harder to navigate.

“No, I don’t think so. I mean, a bit of me wants to. But I know they wouldn’t understand it.” He sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. “It’s just that I’ve got used to being open about it, with you guys at least, and I can’t help thinking it’s gonna be weird to go back there and not have anyone know suddenly.”

There are a few moments of silence, as Aramis can almost hear them all trying to think of a nice way to say _yeah, that’s gonna suck_.

Then Athos asks, “Your mother still has dogs, though?”

“Yeah, two.” D’Artagnan can’t help smiling as he replies, “Gigi and Max. They’re collies. Real farm dogs, probably smarter than me.”

 _God,_ Athos is clever, and now the solution to d’Artagnan’s woes is clear.

“Well, there you go then,” Aramis replies easily, reaching forward and endangering his own lunch in order to ruffle d’Artagnan’s hair. “If you feel the urge while you’re down there, you’ll have them.”

D’Artagnan’s smile is a brilliant, relieved thing. “You’re right. Thank you. And they miss me more than my sisters do, anyway.”

“Dogs are good like that,” Aramis says lightly, indulging himself imagining d’Artagnan curling up in a pile of straw with two massive collie dogs stretched out either side of him, licking his face.

He leaves on Wednesday morning, and it takes until Thursday evening for Aramis to notice that without him around, things are ever so subtly _off._ Porthos is suddenly being a lot more tactile with him for one, even when he doesn’t seem to want to get his end away; meanwhile Aramis doesn’t see Athos once for what must be going on three days, and takes to banging on his door at random intervals until he hears an answering, “Go away,” or occasionally a “Not dead.”

They normally only do this around the anniversaries of first Athos’ marriage and then his brother’s death, which both fall in the last week of July, Athos normally taking two weeks off work for his ‘annual holiday’, which actually involves hiding in his room and drinking himself into a stupor. But it’s barely even June, and therefore Aramis is forced to conclude that it’s d’Artagnan’s absence alone that’s sent Athos into a miniature tailspin. Which is both alarming and intriguing – and so Aramis waits until Porthos is out at work before going to bang repeatedly on Athos’ door and follow it up by shouting, “I want to talk to you. So either come out or let me in.”

He doesn’t think he’s ever been let into Athos’ room in the five years they’ve lived together, but Athos does at least come out, bleary-eyed and unsteady in a T-shirt and sweatpants.

He squints at Aramis with the confusion of the newly-awoken. “What time is it?”

“Ten thirty on Saturday. Have you been missing work?”

“I set an alarm.” Athos not so much sits as collapses to the floor beside Aramis, putting his feet up on the opposite wall. “Now what is it.”

“You’ve been moping ever since he left,” Aramis replies, sitting down rather more carefully himself. “Tell me what’s going on.”

He knows from long experience that Athos doesn’t appreciate beating around the bush, and that he prefers to keep his business to himself; yet over the years his friend has been slowly but surely getting better at accepting support when it’s offered him, and Aramis thinks this might just be one of those times.

But first, of course, he still sets his jaw and insists, “Nothing’s going on.”

“With you, something is.”

Athos opens his mouth to argue back – and then sighs, dropping his head into his hands for a moment and rubbing his eyes. “Alright. We’ve become… close. I suppose I rely on him more than I’d realised.”

“Are you in love with him?”

Aramis tries to keep the surprise out of his voice, but he’s not sure he’s been entirely successful.

“…no. Not sexually, anyway. Nor romantically, I think.” Athos frowns, his expression distant. “It’s familial, if anything.”

Aramis is torn between exasperation and an overwhelming surge of affection. Love is the simplest thing in the world, and of course Athos ends up beating himself up for caring about someone.

“And… I’m a little envious. Of the two of you.”

Aramis knows exactly what he means: Athos’ relationship to d’Artagnan’s dogness has always been the strongest emotionally, but the most physically distant. It’s somewhat ceremonial, even, in a way that stirs up a lot of inappropriate speculations in Aramis about Athos’ past; and the realisation that Athos is a bit jealous of the way that everyone else in the house is so freely tactile makes sense of a lot of the things Aramis has observed over the last few months.

Because this is Athos, of course he’s ended up drinking and brooding instead of actually talking to d’Artagnan; and he’s always been so busy studiously avoiding watching them together that he’s completely missed the way d’Artagnan sometimes looks longingly over at him sitting alone in his chair, as if he wants nothing more than for Athos to join them in their sprawl of overlapping limbs, but doesn’t quite dare ask.

Aramis slings an arm round him, smiling a little to himself when Athos lets him.

“So be a bit more handsy with him,” he replies, giving Athos’ shoulder a squeeze. “I mean, he’s a dog. I’m pretty sure he’s gonna like it.”

Athos looks him full in the face for the first time this morning, with the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Perhaps I will.”

When Aramis comes home from work late Sunday night, and walks past the open living room door to see d’Artagnan and Athos on the sofa together, d’Artagnan curled up and apparently asleep in Athos’ arms, he makes sure to answer Athos’ defensive glare with an annoyingly cheery grin and a double thumbs-up before taking himself quietly off to bed.

And if he ends up falling asleep cuddling his other pillow – well, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

After that the house equilibrium is restored for a couple of weeks, until Aramis comes home one day from a particularly tiring shift that involved too many annoyed customers for his liking to find d’Artagnan all alone, curled up in a mournful ball on the sofa with his collar on and staring off into space, though his eyes flick briefly up when he hears Aramis enter the room.

“Hey, Puppy.” Aramis leans over and gives his shoulder a gentle shove, and d’Artagnan shifts and makes room for him to sit before dropping his head back down on Aramis’ thigh and closing his eyes.

Mindful of the fact that a little touch always helps, Aramis buries his fingers in d’Artagnan’s hair and spends half a minute massaging his scalp before he asks gently, “So what’s up?”

He’s preparing himself for all manner of problems, but he certainly doesn’t expect d’Artagnan to reply, screwing up his face as if it pains him, “I met someone.”

Aramis can’t help grinning, mostly in amusement but also with a little relief. “That bad?”

“No, I mean – she’s lovely!” D’Artagnan rolls onto his back so that he’s looking up at Aramis, who pulls a bit of hair off his face and watches his expression turn distinctly dreamy. “Her name’s Constance. She’s gorgeous and clever and kind, even though she pretends not to be, and she likes me too… and she loves dogs.”

“But you’re not sure if she wants one as a boyfriend, right?”

D’Artagnan nods miserably.

And though Aramis knows he shouldn’t be nosy, he tells himself that he can’t be expected to give proper advice without knowing, “And if I can ask a personal question… does your penchant for things four-legged extend to the bedroom?”

D’Artagnan hesitates for a split second before replying, “No. At least I don’t think so. I haven’t – been with anyone since I figured it out. But I’d know, right?”

“I expect so, yeah,” Aramis agrees, resting an arm across d’Artagnan’s chest and continuing to pet him with the other hand. “If you haven’t been fantasising about it then you’re probably good.”

“Thank God,” d’Artagnan replies, with feeling. “At least if she thinks it’s totally weird then I can sort of keep it separate.”

“But you don’t want to,” Aramis guesses.

“No. I mean…” d’Artagnan waves a hand, trying to think of the words, “it’s a part of my life. Who I am. It’s important to me.”

Aramis takes a few moments to think, hand stroking d’Artagnan’s hair before he offers, “Well, let us know if we can do anything? It might help if she could see what you’re like with us when you’re in dogspace.”

“Yeah. I’ll think about it, thank you.” D’Artagnan gives him a grateful smile. “I’m meeting up with someone tomorrow, actually. Her name’s Lucie. She’s – like me. Well, sort of. She’s not sure what she is, but. I’ll ask her if she has any advice.”

“That’s great, what are you gonna do?”

“We’re meeting in the city. Lunch and the Luxembourg Gardens.” D’Artagnan grins. “She said she likes running around, so.”

Aramis isn’t quite sure what d’Artagnan has in mind, but as he relaxes back into the sofa and lets d’Artagnan drift a little under his touch, he decides he’s happy with the mental image of the two of them chasing each other through the wooded edges of the gardens, tackling each other to the grass before curling up together for a nap behind a bush somewhere, out of sight of the patrolling gendarmes.

Though of course he’s never met Lucie himself, he imagines her as something fast and low to the ground, perhaps an otter or a beaver. It’s all rather heartwarming, really.

Constance comes for dinner a fortnight later, and Aramis likes her instantly. She’s sharp-tongued and terrifically funny, and between the soppy smiles she and d’Artagnan are giving each other every thirty seconds and her no-nonsense attitude to absolutely everything else, Aramis decides his puppy’s onto a good thing.

He eats his lasagne with one eye on Athos, mindful of the conversation they had; but he’s glad to see that Athos appears almost as taken with Constance as d’Artagnan is himself, asking all about her dressmaking business and her opinion on a film director who Aramis has never even heard of, the kind of questions that probably come off as polite but from Athos indicate a genuine interest.

Though as the leader of their little pack – Aramis suppresses a chuckle at his own wording – he probably thinks it’s down to him to vet her.

As their meal draws to a close, Aramis can see Constance and d’Artagnan’s levels of awkwardness steadily rising, and he can’t help catching Athos’ eye; and after a couple of seconds of silence after the last of them puts down their knife and fork, it’s Porthos who’s the first to get to his feet, scraping back his chair as he says, “Let’s go through. Who’s for another drink?”

Beers and wines are collected, and Aramis is the first to wander through to the living room, with Constance just behind, sitting himself down in his usual place on the sofa and patting the cushion beside him. “So why don’t you tell me what you think of this grand old city of ours?” he asks as she sits, and takes a nervous sip of her wine. “You’re a local born and bred, am I right?”

It turns out that Constance has a great deal of opinions about Paris and its myriad charms and issues, and Aramis keeps her firmly engaged in conversation as the other three finally join them a few minutes later, Porthos sitting on the floor in front of Aramis and leaning back against his legs, Athos in his chair and d’Artagnan on the floor by his feet, in his usual place for getting in touch with his canine side.

Aramis is trying not to look too obviously – and he can tell Constance is too – as d’Artagnan leans against Athos’ leg and closes his eyes, and Athos’ hand drops down to rest on d’Artagnan’s head.

They determinedly keep the conversation going between the four of them, trying for normality, though it’s clear that everyone’s attention, however well-meant, is mostly on d’Artagnan; and though Aramis can’t see his face he doubts he’s having any luck at all getting down into his dogspace – not like this, knowing the woman he likes is watching and not knowing how she’s going to take it.

Aramis looks at Athos again, who meets his eyes steadily, his hand holding d’Artagnan’s head against his thigh as if he’s shielding him.

It’s just a few more seconds before d’Artagnan shakes Athos’ hand away, getting abruptly to his feet. “I’m sorry, I can’t –” he starts to say, then, “Constance, would you come and get another drink with me?”

“Of course,” Constance replies immediately, expression serious, ignoring the fact that her wine glass isn’t yet empty and d’Artagnan’s barely touched his beer as she follows him out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Aramis hears d’Artagnan’s voice, muffled through the door, saying, “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t do it…” before they close the kitchen door as well and his words fall away entirely.

“And now we wait.” He lifts his legs up and stretches them out over Porthos’ shoulders – or tries to, anyway, as Porthos immediately pushes them off again.

“Get off,” he grumbles, heaving himself up onto the sofa in the place Constance has just vacated. “My arse has gone numb sitting down there.”

Aramis just grins.

“Well, I like her,” he says conversationally – though if he’s honest he’s mostly talking to Athos, whose continued silence is proving difficult to interpret.

Athos, of course, ignores Aramis’ attempts to fish for information completely, instead replying, “And I wish I’d had the foresight to bring the bottle through.”

Athos lasts a grand total of ten minutes before cracking (which if Aramis is honest, may have something to do with the game Porthos is playing on his phone, complete with lots of cheerful electronic noises, and his own completely unhelpful running commentary on the same), getting to his feet with a sigh and leaving the room.

Aramis thumps Porthos until he puts his phone on mute and strains his own ears for the sound of Athos knocking softly on the kitchen door and Constance’s voice calling out for him to come in; then nothing he can make out for a few minutes, until Athos returns with the open bottle of wine, closing the living room door behind him again.

“Well?” Aramis demands, deciding it’s time to abandon all pretence at subtlety.

Athos takes his time sitting down, pouring himself a fresh glass of wine and drinking from it before replying, “Our puppy is at this moment lying across three kitchen chairs with his head in Constance’s lap. And in answer to your earlier question, Aramis? I like her too.”

“Glad to hear it,” Porthos replies, with feeling, and Aramis holds his beer aloft.

“To Constance!”

Porthos makes an immediate grab for his beer.

Athos coughs in a way that sounds suspiciously like the word ‘children’.

Aramis wonders if he’s ever loved anybody quite so much.


End file.
